


venus, planet of love was destroyed by global warming

by safeandsound13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, F/M, Road Trips, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:27:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23243263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: In a world tainted by darkness, Harper meets Monty.
Relationships: Monty Green/Harper McIntyre
Comments: 10
Kudos: 12
Collections: Chopped Madness





	venus, planet of love was destroyed by global warming

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally the by-product of me listening to nobody by mitski on repeat for seven hours straight during a quarantine-induced spiral. Cheers!

One day, the sky split open in the middle, forming a cloud of darkness. It spread, further and further, took and took, consumed and consumed, until there wasn’t even a single shred of light left in the world. 

Harper took off on her bike, and never looked back. (Well, that’s not entirely true. She looked back once, and wishes she hadn’t.)

Humanity went mad, as per usual. Riots, governments turning on their own people, a little global warming added in the mix, literal purges, the regularly scheduled selfishness. Of course, it wasn’t _just_ the dark. Cause of the darkness: fascist alien Dementor looking freaks out for blood. Or like, something more poetic than that. Feeding on the human soul, A.K.A. the sources of life and eternal hope and sunshine and rainbows, _whatever_. Nothing good. 

Most of the days -- endless nights -- blur together. Harper drives, goes from place to place, explores abandoned gas stations and unearths long empty roads, tries the age-old art of survival when every minute feels more meaningless than the last. 

She hadn’t seen or spoken to anyone in weeks. Figured she was better off alone, especially after her short stint with some sort of Amish cult trying to get her to eat a chip like it was the Holy Communion so she could ‘go to the City of Light’. They’d looked nice, _normal_ , offered her warm food and kind promises. Then those few stray wanders in Wyoming, who ripped every possession she had away and left her with nothing but blood on her hands. Even worse, travelling through Washington and encountering a group of men hiding down in the old mines. They couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. She only escaped after half of them were eradicated by their common enemy, plucked away one by one until she would've been next.

If there was one thing clear as day, it was that there was no light. Neither here or there. She couldn’t trust anyone.

Mostly, she’s _tired_. There’s not much sleep in the time of apocalypse, even less running from rampant homicidal extraterrestrials, and even fewer when every time she closes her eyes, she sees the drained, ghostlike faces of her parents. 

Harper doesn’t know what she’s looking for, doesn’t know what she’s holding out for each day out there on the road, what she’s hoping to find out here in a world without sunshine. Some sort of sign, a place or a person or a feeling -- one magic thing that will finally make it all make sense. 

So she’s not sure why. Why she decides to pull over her cheap second hand ( _r_ _ead: stolen_ ) Ducati scrambler today, for the first time in months. Why today of all days. Maybe it’s his small gracious smile despite everything, or the sign in his hands ‘ _SNICKERS 4 RIDE’_ she can just barely make out in the flash of her headlights the two seconds it takes her to pass him. 

Harper skids to a halt fifty feet ahead, asphalt grinding angrily underneath the weight of her tire, and he closes the distance between them with, what some may describe as, a small skip in his step, huge backpack bouncing along with him. Cardboard long forgotten in the dirt beside the road. 

Everyone in the world is afraid of looking stupid, but not him. That’s what she likes about him. The first thing he does as she swings one of her legs off her bike, perching her helmet on her hip, is wave a Snickers bar in her face. “It wasn’t false advertising.”

She cocks an eyebrow, eyes flicking over to the bar. She’s not too threatened by this guy. Dark black hair and kind eyes. He’s about her size, just a little more scrawny. She could definitely take him in a fist fight. Still, she’s wary -- his maniacal buddies could come out any second and make 'pouncing' a group activity, or he could’ve made some sort of deal with their new foreign dictators to find little willing human souls for them. They’re evil. They’d probably try and turn them against themselves. “And what an advertisement it was.”

He’s still holding out the bar, but with a little less confidence now. His cheeks seem to be flushing steadily as he scratches the back of his neck with his other hand awkwardly. “Why does this kind of stuff always happen in America first?”

She is still trying to wrap her head around the why, but she finds herself cracking a smile with a small breath of reluctance laughter. “I’d blame Hollywood, but I’m afraid this is the part _after_ the credits stop rolling.”

Harper takes the bar, their fingers touching briefly. His are warm, and his dark eyes follow the curves in the long blonde braid falling down her shoulder. Her smile grows into a smirk. “I’m Harper.”

“Monty.” He holds out his hand again, and she shakes it. Their hands stay connected for a moment too long to be considered completely casual, a distracted look on his face. After a beat, he takes in a quick breath as if remembering where he is all of a sudden, then adds, like an afterthought, “Green. Monty Green.”

She juts out her hip, adjusting her helmet as her eyebrows disappear further towards her hairline. “And where are you heading, Monty Green?”

He half-shrugs, hoisting his backpack higher onto his back, thumbs lodged around the bottom of the loops around his waist. “Further South. There’s, uhm -- this place.”

“Nice,” she answers, not being able to help from the sarcasm lining her voice. “Keeping it vague, so I don’t know if I’m walking into an ambush or driving you somewhere remote enough for my own homicide. Quite the MO.”

He’s shaking his head already, thick hair falling in front of his eyes. “Me and my friend, uhm -- it started out as a joke.” Sheepish, is how she’d best describe the look that takes over his face next. “We made this pact to go to Burning Man. Each year, we’d try to hitchhike there. Except each year we got progressively higher." He squints at her, as if knowing what he's about to say is some sort of inside joke that'll only make sense to him. "Kind of like Harold and Kumar but very low budget.”

She fakes a dramatic wince. “So like no budget at all?”

There’s a pleased little smile on his face as he arches one of his brows. “Hence the hitchhiking.”

This time he does coax a laugh out of her, a sound she hasn’t heard in over half a year. His smile brightens and for a second it flares something warm inside her chest, and then it dulls, and then it’s gone like it was never there. “Did you ever get there?” 

“Senior year of College. Best weekend of my life.” Thumbs still wrapped around the loops, he points his forefingers at her. “Until Sunday morning came and we woke up on his bedroom floor realizing we just had just been on this weird, collective _very_ visceral acid trip for 48 hours straight.”

“Sounds more fun than any of my recent weekends,” Harper retorts easily, fingers tightening around the chocolate in her hand. There seems to be a dire unspoken edge to this story, but then again everything seems to be covered in dread nowadays.

There’s a kind of sadness in his eyes she recognizes all too well. His voice softer now. “I was with him, you know. During the final sunset.”

She presses her lips together tightly, folding them into a small, understanding smile. Everybody knows what that’s code for. Nobody shared their final sunset with anyone but the ones most dearest to them. 

It’s the apocalypse of apocalypses. What else is there to do?

She nudges her chin towards her bike, already turning to swing one leg over it. Impartial, is what she goes with. “I’ve been North already. Not much left there.”

His eyes light up and he slides down on top of the seat behind her and his arms tighten around her waist as she pulls her helmet back over her head and revves the engine and she’s driving in the middle of nowhere with a hitchhiking stranger on the back of her motorcycle and then Harper is doing _everything_ her parents ever warned her not to do. 

It takes them three days to get to Nevada. On some withering hay bale in the middle of Nowhere, Arizona they share the Snickers and he lets her have two-thirds. At some point in between Hour twenty-nine and thirty-two, he informs her broccoli is actually a flower and his mom accidentally ordered ten times the amount for Thanksgiving that one year and how his dad tried to pass it off as a rare breed of Oriental flowers in their shop once and she laughs until she can’t breathe. Laughter still feels like an out of body experience. Their arms pressed together in an abandoned shed, sharing a half-empty flask of self-made moonshine to keep warm, he tells her about Jasper. The pills, the dusk, and the letter. She likes the sound of his voice, calm -- like waves lapping onto the shore. 

Harper sighs, staring out into the distance, hands on her hips. By her feet, there’s one of his big LED flash torches that you have to wind up to get to work lighting up what might as well be the Sahara. “At one point we’re going to have to admit that any one of these sandboxes could be the one. A desert is a desert.”

She’s not keen to get rid of him. He makes her laugh. And he’s gentle, and sweet, and cute. Someone she would’ve been friends with if they met under any other circumstances. But there’s still a part of her that hopes their departure will crack something wide open inside of her. Violently so. She’s tired of going through the motions. She wants to feel something. She wants to not be numb. 

“Fine,” Monty agrees begrudgingly but also not really, stuffing his roadmap back into his backpack carelessly. He pulls out a worn blanket instead, lays it down on the ground, motioning for her to sit down on it. “Here it is, then.” He takes a deep, shaky breath and she almost feels bad for pushing him. “Burning Man 2048.”

He starts walking off in the distance, and her curiosity gets the best of her. “Monty?”

Monty crouches down with his backpack, rummaging through it’s contents. “Give me a second!” The sound almost echoes, which seems impossible, considering all they’re surrounded by is sand and empty open space. Stretching on and on, everywhere and nowhere.

Leaning back on both of her hands with a sigh, she waits for him. Waits for him to sprint back towards her, crashing down beside her loudly and mirroring her position. The only sound that of his heavy pants and a low crackle in the far distance.

Nothing happens for a few seconds, and then suddenly, a roar of fire startles her, an arrow-like form taking flight.

With bated breath, Harper looks up at the fireworks exploding in the dark sky, little bright sparks of light and suddenly she feels close to tears. There it is. What she’s been looking for. _Peace._ It’s going to be over soon. 

“Kiss me,” she breathes, so soft, she’s afraid he might not have heard her. Hopes he hasn’t, shoulder stiff as she studies him meticulously from the corner of her eye.

Harper’s heart thuds loudly in her chest as he slowly starts to turn his head, adjusting his hand so he can lean further back, pinky brushing against hers. His eyes are bright, even in the dark, and the explosions in the sky are sizzling and it’s all going to be over soon. Slowly, he leans closer, giving her enough time to pull back, but she doesn’t. He kisses her, and then she is _really_ doing everything her parents ever warned her not to do. 

His fingers run down her braid, sending a shiver down her back and it’s like a dam breaks. Her torso twists and her hands grip his jacket and her mouth presses against his harder -- all trying to get closer. More. “Wait--” he murmurs against her mouth, pulling back slightly. His breath is warm against her skin.

She frowns, keeping her eyes closed. Afraid that if she opens them, she might ruin everything. “I don’t want to wait,” she mumbles, hands sliding up to his shoulders and neck, coming to a stop on his cheeks so she can pull him back towards her. 

He’s leaning away again way too soon, and he’s looking at her all pensive and concerned and _too_ much. Way too much. Pulling her knees up against her chest, she hugs them to her body and casts her eyes back onto the sky. Looking at him hurts. The last of the fireworks take flight, and it sizzles long after. She knows. “I’m going to stay here.”

His brow furrows together, she can tell even from where she’s sitting, refusing to look at him. “They’ll find you.” Everybody knows staying in one spot is like suicide. 

“I know.” She doesn’t care. She doesn’t want to run from inevitable any longer. “I want to stay.”

Monty’s shaking his head, using his palms to rub his eyes roughly before pushing off the ground. “I can’t do this again.”

She slowly rises to her feet, hugging herself to brace the sudden frosty air around them. “Excuse me?”

His jaw clenches, and then his nose scrunches up for a second, obviously struggling with something. “I know what it looks like when someone is giving up.” Monty’s eyes fixate on a spot by her feet, teeth grinding together painfully. “I can’t fight _for_ you, Harper.”

She huffs skeptically, halfway offended as she runs a hand through her hair, not caring she ruins her braid. “I don’t need you to fight for me!” She takes a step closer to him, demanding his eyes on hers as she rakes his face. Her voice grows tight, everything suddenly tumbling out at once. “I’ve been fighting, Monty! Ever since the day the sun disappeared I’ve been doing _everything_ to survive.” Before the apocalypse, she was just a social media manager for a fucking Chuck E. Cheese but at least she _liked_ the person she was. After, and she’s killed, taken _lives._ Knives have been held against her throat, guns against her temples, clothes ripped off her body. She left people behind. Everything is different. Now, she’s weak, and her tone wavers, “I’m tired of fighting.” 

More to himself to her, fingers curling into a fist and uncurling repetitively as if reminding him this is really happening, he mumbles, like a mantra, “I can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.”

Something breaks inside of her, something raw and painful and she just wants to scream but all that comes out is barely a hoarse whisper. Saving? He wants to talk about saving? Finally, there it is: “I couldn’t even save my parents. After the final sunset -- they told me to go, and I did.” She inhales sharply through her nose, tears stinging her eyes but she bites them back, until she tastes metal and is sure her voice won’t break when she speaks. “When I came back for them--” She shakes her head, cutting herself off.

Harper can’t think about it. If she thinks about it, she sees their faces. And if she sees their faces, she has to feel what she felt in that moment. Knowing she took the first opportunity to run, and her parents paid the price for it. 

“So what?” He urges, not unkind but not gentle either. Honest. “You feel guilty? You survived and they didn’t?”

An ugly feeling washes over her a lot like resentment, turns her stonecold. Her hands shake. Her vision somehow turns sharper. Her jaw tightens. “Everyday I’m in _pain_ , Monty. It’s torture just to breathe. Every day I wake up and I’m disappointed. Are you saying all of that means nothing?” She snorts, mirthless and a little mean. “That, _what_? I’m being dramatic?”

“ _No_! That’s not what I’m saying it all,” Monty throws back quickly, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he holds his hands up defensively, like she might pounce on him any second. She’s been the prey, she’s been the predator. Somehow she feels like neither. “I’m saying that if you bother to look, there’s still so much good out there. It’s still -- God, it's still _worth_ it. To try and build something. There are honest people out there, and waterfalls, chocolate, and, and -- _poppies_!” He lets out a breathy, desperate laugh, corners of his mouth turning up in a reluctant smile. “Growing despite the dark.”

“That’s not fair,” she responds, quiet, hastily wiping at the single tear that managed to find it’s way down her cheek. Harper’s shoulders deflate, and she can’t find it in herself to be on the defense any longer. She tilts her head slightly, gaze flicking between each of his eyes as she studies them. “Everything’s been taken from me. I’m allowed to feel this way.”

“I’m not devaluing your pain,” he presses, frantic and tugging on his hair in frustration, then quiets his tone at the look on her face, “I’m dethroning it.” His voice lingers in the air for a heavy moment. Then he takes a step closer, and his hand hovers in the air, eyes flicking to her braid, but he doesn’t reach up further. Instead he meets her gaze, brown eyes stubbornly insistent. “Don’t let pain be what rules you. Don’t let it be what--” he motions between the two of them with two fingers, pressing his lips together in a sad, resigned smile, “ends _this_.”

He said he wasn’t going to fight for her, and yet here he is. 

“ _This_ ,” she repeats, the words sounding foreign in her mouth as she repeats the motion he made between them. “Is nothing. We’ve known each other for what? Three days? You think you can fix me? A do-over from last time?” 

It’s a lie. There is something, but she can’t have know there’s something. If she gives him even half an inch--the grief and agony strickening his face right now is better. Safer. It's easier to hurt him than to let him in.

“ _Bullshit._ Time works differently during an apocalypse,” he flashes back, sternly as his forehead creases deeply. He's right. When your life is constantly on the line and nothing is certain, a minute can feel like a day and a week can feel like ten years. “I know there’s nothing I could say that will make you change your mind. You’re not going to be happy again tomorrow. It takes work. You have to plant the seed and water it everyday and then one day you will start to notice the changes, you will start to see it grow.” There’s a frustrated scoff, with her or himself, she can’t tell. “I _like_ you, Harper, and I want to help you. I want to help it grow, but I can’t do it by myself.” He swallows tightly. “Not again.”

She looks at the pile of ashes by his backpack, then up at the dark sky. Her nails dig into her palms, pain spreading up her forearm. The fireworks are over, but something in her chest is blooming. It’s just a spark, but it’s something. The sting fades, and she lets off her palm.

She grits her teeth, then flicks her eyes up to meet his. “You know the constant plant metaphors are kind of tacky, right?”

But then the corners of her mouth are turning up, and he’s full on beaming, tugging on the end of her braid. Harper catches his hand, and her voice is still shaking, but in a good way. A less tragic way. She rolls her eyes half-heartedly, “Like we get it. Your parents were florists.”

The magic feeling she was looking for, the reason why, it doesn’t exist. Deep down, she knew that already. She was just never brave enough to admit to herself that if she wanted to get back to the light, she’d have to fight through a hell of a lot more darkness. God, she’s been _so_ lonely. So lonely, running and pushing away and not letting herself believe in anything good. She thinks she can again, with someone standing beside her. Not someone. Him. It’s not a quick, miraculous fix, and there’s still literal aliens out there trying to suck the soul out of them, but she looks at him, and she wants to unapologetically believe again, wants to not be afraid of what’s around the corner all the time, of the next time she is hurt being the final straw that finally breaks her when all along she’s been broken, and it’s -- _something._

Monty squeezes her fingers, and the pain, it’s still there, and the dull feeling that’s made a home out of her chest hasn’t left either, but it’s like she can imagine what a sunrise looks again. Can picture the soft pink shades filtering through the air, the rays of gold catching in her hair, feel the warmth on her skin. “Well at least you know what you’d be signing up for. I’m seventy percent cheesy self-help books quotes and thirty percent boyband hair.”

“You’re lucky I like your hair,” she muses, cupping his chin with her thumb and forefinger for a second. Her smirk grows softer, in a special kind of way she hasn’t let herself use in a while. He gave her something, and she wants to give it back. “And you, too.”

There’s a moment where they just stand there like two idiots staring at each other, and then she’s dropping his hand and digging through her pocket. He watches her curiously, but catches the keys seamlessly when she throws them his way. “Lead the way, Monty Green.”

He makes a move to turn toward her bike, then stops, keys dangling from his forefinger. Her Phoenix keychain clunks loudly against the others, and yes, she stole the bike and the keys, _and_ technically the keychain, but like, she’s doing this. Rising from the ashes and all. Breathing in the fire and spitting it back out. She can do metaphores too. A timid look covers his face. “You never told me your last name.”

For the longest time, she felt like the side-character in a big blockbuster movie, the one who goes by a nickname and who spits out a quirky one-liner ever so often and the writers don’t actually take a last name into consideration until like the third installment where they come up with a tragic backstory to make her more versatile and explain the whole sarcastic one-liner thing as a defense mechanism. Going through the motions, simply existing in someone else's story, waiting to be saved by the hero. In reality, she didn’t feel worthy. Worthy of the name she only got because of her parents, knowing they wouldn’t be proud of who she was today, who she became. But every day, there’s a choice she can make, to be who she wants to be, to be better. Like him. And today, she choses a new beginning. “McIntyre. Harper McIntyre.”

**Author's Note:**

> just give me one good movie kiss, am I right?


End file.
